“Are you sure you got all of the pictures?” the woman asked, a note of concern in her voice.
“I’d give it a ninety-five percent certainty.” In her experience, dead or alive were the only sure things in life. Everything else came in shades of gray. “If you find out he has more, let Alyssa know, and I’ll take care of those as well.”
A shuddering sigh came over the phone. “Oh, God. Thank you so much. What do I owe you?”
“Nothing. Good luck with your divorce.” She’d settle up with Alyssa later, when she needed a favor in return.
With a smile, Essie ended the call and slipped the phone into her pocket. The cowboy boots had rubbed a blister on her heel, and relief swept through her when she turned the corner and the Salty Dog Saloon’s half-lit neon sign came into view.
Back in the day, at the end of an op, she’d celebrate a job well done with one of her favorite foods and an icy-cold mojito. If she was lucky, Jackson would be home on leave and they’d spend the night naked, sweaty, and wrapped—nope, not going there. That ship had sailed—and sunk—in spectacular fashion, which meant that option was no longer on the table.
She’d parked at the outer edge of the lot, far away from prying eyes and the security camera by the front entrance. The closest streetlight flickered on and off, casting a strobe light effect on that part of the lot. When she got into her car, she pulled off her boots, tossed them onto the floor of the passenger side, and wriggled her pinched toes. Thankfully, she kept a pair of flats in the car, and she slipped them on before she started the car and pulled out of the lot.
She wanted that shower, and she wanted a drink, and then she might be able to stop thinking about Jackson for the rest of the night.
Chapter 2
Essie was almost homewhen a chirp on her phone alerted her to a break-in at her apartment.
Her first reaction was surprise and annoyance, followed closely by morbid curiosity. Crime was low in that part of Orlando, one of the reasons she’d moved to the area more than a year ago. That hadn’t stopped her from upgrading the locks and installing a security system the day she’d signed the lease and picked up her keys from the front office. Some people might consider it overkill but in her line of work, it was always best to err on the side of caution.
Honestly, there weren’t many things in her home worth stealing. During her time as a spy, she’d learned to travel light, and even now she didn’t keep much in the way of material possessions. What little of value she owned was hidden in places that wouldn’t be easily discovered by the average criminal. But was her intruder the average type who’d simply kicked in her door or jimmied the lock? Or was it a blast from her past, intent on settling an old score?
Only one way to find out.
A short drive later, Essie pulled into her apartment complex and backed into a spot across from her building. Most of the residents were young urban professionals, some with young children, which meant at this time of night the place was fairly quiet. She wouldn’t attract much attention if she stayed in her car for a little while. She swiped at her phone, opened the security app, and frowned when she learned that the webcam outside her apartment had been disabled.
That camera had been well-hidden and came equipped with a motion-activated sensor designed to switch on at the slightest movement. And yet it had been deactivated without even a second of video feed to review.
The security system inside the apartment had also been disarmed. If not for a secondary sensor set up inside the foyer, she wouldn’t have known about the breach and would have walked in completely unaware of the intrusion. If the person was still inside, and if he or she meant to do Essie harm, that kind of mistake could have been fatal.
Definitely not the work of a lowlife looking to score a laptop.
For a few long minutes, she stared up at her darkened second-story apartment. The front door was closed. None of the windows were broken. No signs of activity inside. Figures. Nobody with that kind of skill set would be dumb enough to stand in front of a window and advertise their presence.
It was possible the intruder had already left, though Essie’s gut instinct said otherwise. With her focus still fixed on the apartment, she leaned across the passenger seat, unlocked and opened the glove box, and took out the Browning .380 that Jackson had given her years ago. She hoped she wouldn’t have to use it, but it never hurt to prepare for the worst-case scenario.
She supposed she could call the police and let them take charge of the situation. That was how normal people handled matters like this. But she’d never been one for normal, even before her time as a spy. If it turned out to be some punk looking for jewelry to pawn, she could always turn him in to the cops later. But if it was someone from her past with an axe to grind, she wanted to deal with them personally. When push came to shove, she was far better trained for that kind of thing than local law enforcement.
With the gun tucked in her purse, she climbed out of the car and started for the stairs. Her pulse sped up, her senses heightened. She ignored the churn in her gut. Halfway up, she reopened her phone and accessed the app that controlled the speaker inside her home. “Good evening, whoever you are. I’m only going to say this once, so listen carefully. You’ve got ten seconds to get out of my apartment before I release the gas. I’d tell you what kind of gas it is, but why ruin the surprise? Ten…nine…”
Truth be told, there was no gas, but the intruder had no way of knowing that. With luck, the asshole would buy into her bluff, because it had been a long day, her feet still hurt, and she wasn’t in the mood for this crap. If she had to go in after the creep, it wasn’t going to be pretty.
“Seven…six…”
At the count of four, a light switched on inside the building, and the front door cracked open. A second or two passed, and the door opened wider, and a man stepped outside. Tall and lean, wearing khaki pants and a black polo shirt, he raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. But he didn’t appear nervous, not in the least. In fact, his posture seemed downright relaxed as he stepped beneath the light in the hallway, and Essie’s jaw just about hit the ground.
The man stepped farther into view, confirming that her eyes were not deceiving her. “You wouldn’t gas an old friend, would you?”
For a second or two, she was too stunned to do anything more than stare. Of all the things she’d expected, he wasn’t anywhere on the list. Eyes stinging, it took a tremendous amount of effort to keep the tremor from her voice. “By all accounts, you’re a ghost.”
Back in the day, Vaughn Yeager had been her mentor, her closest friend and confidant, and a father figure who’d taught her the finer points of spy craft. During their time at the Agency, they’d worked together on dozens of missions, spanning four continents. While on an assignment in a war-torn former Soviet republic, he’d taken a bullet meant for her and lost a kidney for his trouble.
And six years ago, in the heart of Beirut, she’d watched him walk into a building that was obliterated by a drone strike moments later. The remains of everyone inside had been so thoroughly destroyed, it was impossible to identify them all.
In covert operations, it wasn’t smart to have friends. Those kinds of connections had a way of making people sloppy, and that sloppiness could get you killed. But she’d liked Vaughn. Respected his work ethic. He was one of the best operatives she’d ever worked with, and a legend at the Agency. In her younger days, fresh out of training, she’d looked up to him as a role model. And when he’d died, in a rare show of emotion, she’d allowed herself to grieve.
Vaughn shrugged, a cocky grin on his face that she’d missed for far too long. He wasn’t handsome in a conventional sense, but he had strong features and a roguish quality that appealed to a lot of women. His dark-brown hair was flecked with gray. Lines creased the corners of his eyes. There was a scar on his chin that hadn’t been there before, and another dangerously close to his right eye. Even so, he remained a good-looking man, though she’d never considered him as anything more than a close, platonic friend. “Let’s just say I’m down to eight lives.”
